106

 

STANFORD UNIVERSITY, WEDNESDAY MORNING, 6:00 A.M.

Art Graffenburg threw up his hands in despair. His two co-heads, Bridget Riley and Jon Hendrix, were going at it like cats and dogs, as always. They’d all come in ultra-early. Big storms did that. The weather didn’t sleep.

Lack of sleep had done nothing for their sense of diplomacy. They’d started fighting at the get-go. Co-heads never worked. Bad idea, bad execution. Egos, philosophy, interpretations, and visions clashed and it was ugly. Graffenburg had left the meeting. Now he stood silently outside the door, like a bodyguard.

“The parameters aren’t there,” Hendrix was insisting. “Yeah it’s a big AR, but the variables suggest it won’t precipitate when it makes landfall.”

Inside the meeting room, Bridget Riley and Jon Hendrix faced off across a Styrofoam-laden conference table. There were no windows and the heating was set high. Both were sweating. Their faces were red with the heat and mutual exasperation.

Riley jumped to her feet and began to pace the conference room, taking short staccato steps that matched her voice.

“Look, Hendrix, let’s recap, shall we, see what we got?”

Hendrix folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair, attempting a look of nonchalance.

Riley kicked off. “Right! We have Sat images of an atmospheric river hurtling toward us at speeds estimated to be upward of eighty kph. If we could get one of NASA’s Hawks up there we could make better estimates re speed and severity. So first off, I want to put in the call, if you’re amenable?”

Hendrix nodded. “Go for it. It’s their dollar.”

Riley hid her distaste, just nodded back. “Will do. This AR is scheduled to hit, at its current speeds, tomorrow, maybe at noon, let’s say around twenty-four hours from now, give or take. The rain we’re seeing now is just the outrider of the storm. This is the warm-up.”

“Maybe this rain is all there’ll be,” countered Hendrix. “The AR might not precipitate when it makes landfall,” he repeated, scowling.

“Then again, it just might. I want to up the severity of the warning. I want us to issue a Special Weather Statement.”

Hendrix shook his head. “No need,” he declared, pursing his lips.

Riley walked up to the man, bent over him, lowered her voice.

“You a gambler, Hendrix?”

“No. I’m a scientist.”

Riley cocked her head. “Really? ’cause it seems to me you’re more than happy to gamble with people’s lives.”

“Really? And it seems to me that you forgot to take your medication.” Hendrix spoke mildly, the barb so sharp a soft delivery still drove it home.

Riley did literally see the legendary red haze of rage. A dozen, terminal retorts rocked through her head. Instead, using up almost her last reserves of will power, she blinked, turned, and walked from the room.